superstitiously unwilling to do: she quoted a poem
written in his youth in which he prophesied Neither country nor churchyard will I choose/Til come to Vasilevsky Island to die - so that all those who had revered him as their spokesman when he was in exile might have the comfort of seeing him back amongst
them in St Petersburg, even if it meant risking a visit to Vasilevsky Island. 'What about all those little old ladies of the
intelligentsia,' Tolstaya had reminded him, 'your readers, all the librarians, museum staff, pensioners, communal apartment
dwellers who are afraid to go out into the communal kitchen with their chipped teakettle? The ones who stand in the back rows
at philharmonic concerts, next to the columns, where the tickets are cheaper?' Tolstaya was right. We know about the great
ones, the Solzhenitsyns, the Brodskys, the Sa-kharovs, but when, even in those dark days before the Fall of the Wall, did
we think about the 'little old ladies of the intelligentsia', those sustainers of the spark, those no less heroic guardians
of the light?
Philip had arrived that day from Bucharest, where he had been seeing one of his dissident poets - although the adjective is
superfluous, since to write poetry in Romania then was automatically to dissent. I was interested to hear a first-hand account
of life there, suspecting, as so many of us in the West suspected, that reports of the gaudy excesses of the Ceau§escu regime
must be in part at least inspired by the American Central Intelligence Agency. Philip was there to enlighten me, however.
He is one of those wised-up people, is Phil, who see themselves both as social outsiders - dissidents, if you like - and as
players strenuously engaged in the great game of world politics. Whatever you vaguely believe, whatever fuzzy opinion you
may hold, whatever way you choose to account for world-historical events, Philip can be depended upon to show you how fatuous
and shallow you are in your grasp of reality, how hopelessly limited in your thinking. In Phil's version, everything that
happens is either the innocent-seeming tip, glistening there in the sun, of an immense, malignant iceberg, or a deliberately
manufactured smokescreen behind which a secret inferno is raging. Nothing, for Phil, is as it seems, and he has the inside
information. Yes, all that I have heard about Ceau§escu and his doings is correct, Phil can tell me. In fact, I do not know
the half of it. When Phil was in Bucharest, Ceau§escu was returning from one of his many triumphal progresses through the
world's capitals. To mark his homecoming, or so Philip swore, a full-sized replica of the Arc de Triomphe, made from plywood,
or maybe even cardboard, had been erected on the road along which the President would travel on his way in from the airport.
In the city centre the boulevards along which the President's motorcade would pass were emptied of onlookers - that is, possible
troublemakers - by squads of security police in ankle-length leather overcoats and slouch hats, just like the Gestapo, on
whom, or on movie versions of whom, they had probably modelled themselves. Yes, typewriters were licensed, and could be confiscated
without warning. The Ceau§escu family ran the country like a mafia, for their own aggrandisement and to fill their secret
Swiss bank accounts. All this was true, all this and more. Jan, making abstract designs with his fingertip in , nodded gloomily:
yes, yes, all true. 'Ceau§escu is a vampire,' he said with a sigh, 'his wife too, that bitch. Between them they have brought
Romania back to the Middle Ages.' The Russians knew it, of course, knew how bad things were, but what could they do? 'If they
invade, take over the government, the Americans will howl; let matters go on as they are, the country will explode. Either
way, is a disaster.' Big Phil, however, was shaking his big head slowly and smiling his pitying smile. How could we be so
written in his youth in which he prophesied Neither country nor churchyard will I choose/Til come to Vasilevsky Island to die - so that all those who had revered him as their spokesman when he was in exile might have the comfort of seeing him back amongst
them in St Petersburg, even if it meant risking a visit to Vasilevsky Island. 'What about all those little old ladies of the
intelligentsia,' Tolstaya had reminded him, 'your readers, all the librarians, museum staff, pensioners, communal apartment
dwellers who are afraid to go out into the communal kitchen with their chipped teakettle? The ones who stand in the back rows
at philharmonic concerts, next to the columns, where the tickets are cheaper?' Tolstaya was right. We know about the great
ones, the Solzhenitsyns, the Brodskys, the Sa-kharovs, but when, even in those dark days before the Fall of the Wall, did
we think about the 'little old ladies of the intelligentsia', those sustainers of the spark, those no less heroic guardians
of the light?
Philip had arrived that day from Bucharest, where he had been seeing one of his dissident poets - although the adjective is
superfluous, since to write poetry in Romania then was automatically to dissent. I was interested to hear a first-hand account
of life there, suspecting, as so many of us in the West suspected, that reports of the gaudy excesses of the Ceau§escu regime
must be in part at least inspired by the American Central Intelligence Agency. Philip was there to enlighten me, however.
He is one of those wised-up people, is Phil, who see themselves both as social outsiders - dissidents, if you like - and as
players strenuously engaged in the great game of world politics. Whatever you vaguely believe, whatever fuzzy opinion you
may hold, whatever way you choose to account for world-historical events, Philip can be depended upon to show you how fatuous
and shallow you are in your grasp of reality, how hopelessly limited in your thinking. In Phil's version, everything that
happens is either the innocent-seeming tip, glistening there in the sun, of an immense, malignant iceberg, or a deliberately
manufactured smokescreen behind which a secret inferno is raging. Nothing, for Phil, is as it seems, and he has the inside
information. Yes, all that I have heard about Ceau§escu and his doings is correct, Phil can tell me. In fact, I do not know
the half of it. When Phil was in Bucharest, Ceau§escu was returning from one of his many triumphal progresses through the
world's capitals. To mark his homecoming, or so Philip swore, a full-sized replica of the Arc de Triomphe, made from plywood,
or maybe even cardboard, had been erected on the road along which the President would travel on his way in from the airport.
In the city centre the boulevards along which the President's motorcade would pass were emptied of onlookers - that is, possible
troublemakers - by squads of security police in ankle-length leather overcoats and slouch hats, just like the Gestapo, on
whom, or on movie versions of whom, they had probably modelled themselves. Yes, typewriters were licensed, and could be confiscated
without warning. The Ceau§escu family ran the country like a mafia, for their own aggrandisement and to fill their secret
Swiss bank accounts. All this was true, all this and more. Jan, making abstract designs with his fingertip in , nodded gloomily:
yes, yes, all true. 'Ceau§escu is a vampire,' he said with a sigh, 'his wife too, that bitch. Between them they have brought
Romania back to the Middle Ages.' The Russians knew it, of course, knew how bad things were, but what could they do? 'If they
invade, take over the government, the Americans will howl; let matters go on as they are, the country will explode. Either
way, is a disaster.' Big Phil, however, was shaking his big head slowly and smiling his pitying smile. How could we be so
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